


The Passage of Time

by Den_Den_Mushi



Category: One Piece
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29939769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Den_Den_Mushi/pseuds/Den_Den_Mushi
Summary: Every year, the swordsmen's shared birthday brought new revelations.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Makino
Kudos: 18





	The Passage of Time

_25;29_

The wind whipped through Shanks’s hair as he leapt backward, seconds before a mighty slash obliterated the surrounding rocks. The red-haired pirate grinned, pausing briefly to wipe the blood and sweat mingling on the front of his tunic as his rival emerged from a cloud of dust before him. 

“Is that it?” Shanks taunted. “C’mon Hawk-Eyes, you’ve gotta do better than that.”

Despite his bravado, Shanks knew that the final attack would be the duel’s last. Both men were at their limits from hours of fighting, could feel their movements growing sluggish and careless as the fight dragged on. Unlike Shanks, Mihawk’s face betrayed no emotion, no blood or sweat on his clothes to suggest the extent of his injuries. However Shanks could hear his rival’s laboured breathing, noticed how he held Yoru’s hilt in a death grip, as though letting go would spell the end. Mihawk said nothing, but the hairs on the back of Shanks’s neck stood up as his haki coalesced around the black blade, clearing preparing for the final blow. 

A grin spread uncontrollably over the younger man’s face. 

“That’s the spirit.” His own haki, sparks of dark red and jet black lightning crackled to life around his sabre, and the pair stared each other down. A moment of brief calm, nothing but the cries of seabirds wheeling overhead in the distant sky. 

And then, without warning, they lunged.

* * *

“That was fun!” Shanks laughed, but winced as a jolt of pain shot through his cracked ribs. “Let’s do this again sometime!”

“...” Mihawk eyed him sideways from where Shanks’s arm was slung around his neck, both men propping each other up as they staggered back to town. Wordlessly, Mihawk nudged his companion around a fallen tree trunk, the shattered debris remaining in the aftermath of their fight. Though he’d never admit it, every step set his legs ablaze, Mihawk idly pondering the damage he’d have to assess in the morning. Fast as his rival was, it was all Mihawk could do sometimes to keep up with him, despite his own advantage in physical strength. 

Mihawk silently regretted venturing so far from the town. With Shanks’s incessant chattering in his ear, and the pain throbbing in all his limbs, the walk back seemed infinitely longer, the road stretching out before them and disappearing into the dark of night. The ferocity of their duels left them no choice, he knew, with entire sections of island devastated by blasted trees and fissures that opened up in the ground. It was a humid night too, the moisture sticking his shirt to his chest, and Mihawk cast his gaze towards the stars, twinkling in the sky. He closed his eyes as a light breeze brought sweet relief, savouring the calm, the song of crickets hiding in the grass as they walked. 

* * *

Shanks’s empty tankard of ale clanged on the table, sending the Red Haired Pirates into a flurry of triumphant whoops.

“Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!” His crewmates roared, goading their captain on as he drank. 

“A birthday duel and drinks, now this is the life!” Shanks cheered, before turning to call out to the bar. 

“Another round! Drinks are on me everyone, it’s my birthday!”

The tavern erupted in cheers and the townspeople raised their glasses in a toast, the waitstaff scurrying to and fro between tables of merrymaking pirates and civilians alike. Mihawk sat beside Shanks, nursing his own tankard of ale and observing the raucous partying around him. The Red Haired Pirates’ drink of choice usually sat poorly with Mihawk, tempted as he was to march up to the bar and demand their finest vintage instead. Yet on his and Shanks’s shared birthday, the yearly ritual they’d fallen into, he found himself drinking the cheap pale swill with more enthusiasm than usual, chalking it up to his exhaustion from earlier in the day. 

“Excuse me sirs.” A woman’s voice caught Mihawk’s attention as a buxom barmaid strutted up to their table, bearing trays laden with foaming beer. The Red Haired Pirates each snagged a glass and downed it with relish, and Mihawk heard Lucky Roo smacking his lips in satisfaction as he sculled. 

“If there’s anything else I can do for you…” the barmaid leaned over Mihawk’s shoulder to collect the empty tankards, giving him a generous view of her cleavage as she did. But she wasn’t looking at him, her large brown eyes fixed intently on the redhead beside him instead. Mihawk was secretly glad for it; he found such crass displays of sexuality vulgar and base, the wily machinations of pirate and civilian women alike a distraction from his ambitions and training. He wasn’t unpopular with women, his reputation as a rising star in the world of swordsmanship drawing suitors in numbers that rivalled his challengers, but Shanks was in a league of his own. Roguish and handsome, the former Roger Pirate found himself the centre of attention wherever he went, never failed to captivate men and women alike with his devilish smirk and charismatic charm. 

“Thanks sweetheart.” Shanks flashed the woman a cheeky grin. “We’ll call if we need anything.”

“You’d better.” She cast a wink over her shoulder as she sashayed away, and Shanks turned back to Mihawk, clapping a large, calloused hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey do you think she likes me? I think she likes me,” he laughed. “It’s a pity I’m all banged up already from our duel but if I wasn’t…” 

“Spare me the details.” Mihawk didn’t bother hiding his disinterest. The pirate life was often romanticised as one of hedonism and adventure; a different girl in every port, buried treasure on every desert island. His sights set on the pinnacle of swordsmanship, Mihawk ignored the stereotypical aspects of piracy, believing plunder, carnage and base exploits a waste of time better spent in training or blessed solitude. Already, he found himself tiring of the noise and surrounding hubbub, wishing to retreat to his room with a book and a glass of his favourite red. 

“Hawk-Eyes, sometimes I really wonder if you were raised in a monastery. Or at least a nunnery dedicated to the worship of swords and sharp things. Hard to believe you’re not even thirty, really. You seem to have all the libido of a rotting fence post.” 

Mihawk rolled his eyes. “If you’d spend as much time training as you do inebriated or gallivanting with women, perhaps you’d actually be able to defeat me someday,” he answered dismissively, but Shanks remained unaffected. 

“You gotta learn to live a little, Hawk-Eyes!” Shanks abruptly reached over and jabbed at a spot on the other man’s brow. “Training can always wait. I mean, look at you, getting all wrinkly and aging prematurely. A night of fun or two would do you some good, I’m sure. Make you and your swordplay less stiff! Or should I say more?” Shanks guffawed loudly at his own joke. 

Mihawk was used to vulgarities, but that didn’t stop him directing an irate glare at Shanks. A stinging retort perched at the edge of his tongue, but he never got to deliver it, the barmaid returning to the table with an enormous chocolate cake that very moment. The cake was alight with tall sparking candles, decorated with frosting in the shape of the Red Force and a ship’s anchor. Mihawk saw it and grimaced; he knew exactly what was coming. 

“Alright, it’s here!” Yasopp rose from his seat and lifted his glass, directing the rest of the room to follow suit. 

“We’re gonna sing extra loud tonight, not just for the captain, but for our special guest! Let’s loosen him up, get that stick outta his ass for just tonight! Who’s with me?”

The Red Haired Pirates musician struck up a jolly tune on the battered piano in the corner of the bar, the patrons and pirates all turning their attention to the men of the hour. Shanks swung an arm over Mihawk’s shoulder, pulling him closer to the cake as he sang loudly and badly. 

“Happy birthday to us! Happy birthday to us!”

Mihawk woke the next morning with a stabbing pain in his head, and all his limbs. The Red Haired Pirates lay in various states of disarray around him; Lucky was snoring peacefully face down in a puddle of his own vomit, which Mihawk stepped gingerly around on his way to the bathroom. Yasopp was, for some reason, lying on top of the piano, his spindly legs dangling awkwardly off the edge and his blonde dreadlocks tangled with crumbs of birthday cake. Ben was nowhere to be seen, and Mihawk suspected the ponytailed man had been the only one with enough sense or sobriety to return to his hotel room. Most amusingly however, was Shanks. The Red Haired Pirates captain was inexplicably naked, his mouth wide open and leaking drool as he sprawled out on the floor beside his crew. His chest and face were adorned with crude doodles in marker pen, leading Mihawk to check his reflection in the mirror in case anyone had tried to do the same to him. Thankfully, none dared. Mihawk’s own scarlet eyes were noticeably bloodshot, his face was uncharacteristically haggard and without his hat, the swordsman’s dark hair spiked up in every direction. Splashing cold water on his face, Mihawk bashfully slipped out and away from the bar, sparing a single backwards glance to his rival, now another year older, sound asleep in the aftermath of debauchery. 

Every year, Mihawk vowed to never again partake in one of the Red Haired Pirates’ joint birthday parties, an annual tradition whereby the redhead would eagerly track him down and subject him to a night of blackout drinking. And every year, he’d break that vow, unable to resist the lure of a duel and a drink. He’d never admit to enjoying Shanks’s company, would never admit that Shanks was one of the few souls on the sea capable of dragging words from his reticent lips. Mihawk’s life was one of solitude; from a young age, there were scarcely any who could match his ambition, and later on, his talent. Shanks had done both, the twenty-five year old swordsman rapidly rising from boyish deckhand to a New World figure of worldwide renown. His scarred, smiling face was a staple in the headlines, and everywhere Mihawk went, he heard whispers of the maverick captain with his eyes on Gold Roger’s empty throne. 

Mihawk, however, knew better. 

Mihawk cared nothing for ambition without vision, for the countless thugs and brigands who’d take to the Grand Line year after year, loot and plunder the only thing on their minds. He cared nothing for the greedy pirates that played at being rulers, for the brutish beast or the gluttonous hag squabbling for scraps from the King’s table. Emperors. Mihawk scoffed. What a majestic euphemism for these power-hungry brutes, all too happy to rape and pillage swathes of land and cities unlucky enough to fall under their domain. Shanks wasn’t like them, sought to preserve his captain’s legacy, not rewrite it with his own. Shanks took islands under his banner, protecting them from marauders all too common in the Great Age of Piracy. His was a blade that strove to protect, not conquer. 

Mihawk himself had nothing to protect. No crew, no family, not even a significant other. He liked it that way. Without ties to bind him, Mihawk was truly free. 

Yet there were times when Mihawk spared a thought to Shanks, the motley Red Haired pirates crew gathered on the deck of the Red Force. With the wind in their hair and the night sky a star-spangled curtain above, they’d sing Binks’ Sake, the upbeat strains of piano carrying over the waves ahead. He pictured Ben and Yasopp smirking at their captain’s misadventures. He pictured Lucky carving a hunk of meat on a spitroast, the rowdy men clamouring for a slice and a heaving ladle of gravy. 

Sometimes he wondered if that, then, was the measure of happiness. 

* * *

_38; 42_

Shanks’s wine was redder than his hair, a magnificent plum-coloured hue that caught the moonlight and sparkled beautifully. Kuraigana castle was a far cry from the bars and taverns that Shanks used to frequent, all austere marble floors and grandiose floor to ceiling windows. Yet with the New World in flux and Mihawk’s new living situation, this was the most effective arrangement, all things considered. 

“Not bad.” Shanks nodded approvingly at Mihawk’s choice of drink. “Bet you don’t share this with your little pupil though, you sneaky old bat.” 

“Roronoa is presently forbidden from drinking alcohol regardless. Consider it an… incentive for the boy to master Armament.” 

“Geez.” Shanks shook his head. “Forcing the kid into sobriety? There’s good pirates out there that’d throw themselves into a nest of Sea Kings ‘fore they’d give up the grog.”

Shanks glanced to and fro around the castle’s cavernous dining hall, his ears straining to catch the sound of footsteps on the cold white tiles. Nothing. He turned back to Mihawk with a quizzical look. 

“Where is the kid anyway? Did you lock him out of the castle or in the broom cupboard or something?”

“Who knows.” Mihawk shrugged indifferently. “Roronoa possesses a laughable sense of direction. I’ll have to fetch him in the morning.” 

“For real? The kid’s actually dumber than Luffy?” Shanks chortled obnoxiously, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Poor Luffy, at least I’ve got Ben to be the brains of our operation.” 

“You should be ashamed of yourself, almost forty and still relying on others to do the hard work of thinking for you.” Mihawk deadpanned, but Shanks merely grinned in response. 

“Well I’m not forty just yet, won’t be for a couple more years. Speaking of which, you hit the big four-oh years ago. You’re officially a stuffy, middle-aged dad.” 

“I am not a father.” Mihawk didn’t know why he bothered to humour Shanks sometimes. 

“You totally are.” Shanks drained his wine in a single gulp. “You cook for two kids, you grounded one and took away his booze, and tomorrow you’re going to go find your poor, lost baby and put a toddler leash on him ‘case he runs off again.” 

Seeing Mihawk’s irate expression only provoked more smugness from Shanks, who raised his good arm in a conciliatory gesture. 

“Hey, I was the one who made a compromise, coming to your boring little suburban party with no music or entertainment. I even made Lucky and Yasopp stay outside on the ship so they wouldn’t sing the ‘Happy Birthday’ song. I get to push a few buttons at least.” 

“I would have them thrown out before they even hit the first note.” 

Mihawk and Shanks settled into a comfortable silence, the gentle familiarity of a rivalry-turned friendship that spanned nearly half of both men’s lives. The last time he’d seen Shanks was at Marineford, Mihawk remembering the grimness and resolve replacing the redhead’s usual charming smile. With the revelation that Portgas D. Ace had been his old captain’s son, Mihawk expected that he’d mourned, that his rival harboured regrets for being unable to save him. Mihawk said nothing of it, but Shanks had visibly aged, lines tugging at the corner of his eyes and subtle streaks of grey through his famous crimson hair. The looming threat of the newest Emperor, the Navy’s clandestine schemes weighed heavy on Shanks’s shoulders, despite his attempts at levity. 

Mihawk was perceptive, Shanks knew. There was no point in hiding. 

“Hey Hawk-Eyes,” Shanks broke the silence at last, meeting Mihawk’s piercing gaze with his own steel-grey eyes. 

“I think I’m going to go back to the East Blue for a bit.”

The East Blue? Mihawk felt his thoughts begin to race. What could Shanks possibly want in that backwater bay? Perhaps it was nostalgia, a longing for the simpler days he’d spent before he was Emperor. Before Roger’s legacy had ever truly come under threat. 

“I’ll still be around for our little celebration next year,” Shanks continued, “but I think it’s time I took a little bit of a break from all this. Can’t waste my last year or two before I magically become old, wizened and hopefully wiser.” 

“You’re well on your way to the first two already.” Mihawk chose not to pry, playing along with his ex-rival’s attempt at mirth. “The last, not so much.”

“... That’s mean, Hawk-Eyes.” 

Mihawk wasn’t alone anymore, but Shanks never had been. He’d always been surrounded by his crew, his subordinates, the strangers he had an uncanny knack for drawing into his orbit. Then again, Mihawk silently mused, sometimes isolation was more than that. Sometimes isolation was a lonely throne, a solitary path. One that only the Pirate King’s intended successor could walk. 

Perhaps that was the true nature of loneliness. 

* * *

_39;44_

Mihawk’s coffin-shaped raft with its jet black sails and eerie green candles stuck out like a sore thumb, bobbing gently alongside humble rowboats and fishing vessels. The man himself strode along a short pier, attracting stares and whispers from the farmers and fishermen that hastily stepped out of his way. The village was the picture of agrarian idyll, tall windmills spinning lazily and grassy fields swept by a gentle breeze. Yet Mihawk felt incredibly ill at ease, preferring the rogues and knaves of the Grand Line over the hicks and peasants that gawked at his garish attire, the black blade gleaming menacingly on his back. Ignoring the passers-by gossiping around him, he made his way to a small, cosy establishment marked ‘Party’s Bar’ and pushed the bat-wing doors open to be greeted by the sound of laughter and the cheerful cooing of a child. 

“Hawk-Eyes! So glad you could make it!” Red-Haired Shanks appeared from the depths of the kitchen, a stained apron tied loosely around his waist. Behind him, Mihawk saw Yasopp and Ben tossing a baby high in the air, the child’s reddish-brown hair eliciting a rare expression of surprise from the World’s Greatest Swordsman. 

“Oh, yeah, we’ve got the whole gang together this year. Plus a couple of extras.” Shanks tracked Mihawk’s gaze to where it lingered on the child, watching the boy squeal with delight as he tugged on Yasopp’s scarf. Mihawk turned back to Shanks, questions burning in his crimson orbs, but Shanks merely shot him a wink, inviting his old rival to follow him further inside. 

“Come on Hawk-Eyes, there’s someone I want you to meet!”

A young woman emerged from the cellar, her emerald green hair tied back by a kerchief and a warm smile spreading over her face when she saw Mihawk. 

“Makino!” Shanks stepped forward and wound his arm around her, bending to plant a kiss on her lips. She was incredibly petite, the top of her head barely brushing Shanks’s chin, and she looked even smaller cradled close to his muscular chest. “The man of the hour is here! We can start the party now.” 

“Oh, you must be Mihawk-san.” The woman wiped her hands on her skirt. “Please, have a seat! I’ve heard so much about you!” She reached up and poked Shanks on the nose then, slipping under his arm and out of his hold. She stepped behind the bar counter, her fingers deftly snagging a bottle of wine and a tray of glasses in a single, practiced gesture. Mihawk scanned the label as she approached, noting that the vintage she’d chosen was older than she was. Clearly her best bottle, reserved for a special celebration. 

“Lucky-san, Rockstar-san, if you please.” Makino beamed at the two men as they wheeled in wooden carts laden with slices of cake from the kitchen. She laid the largest slices in front of Mihawk and Shanks, pausing to pour the swordsmen a glass of wine to accompany their meal. No candles. No song. Mihawk glanced up at her and she smiled again. 

“Shanks tells me it’s your least favourite part. Singing the song, I mean. It’s okay, I won’t embarrass you by making you do it this year.” 

“...Thanks.” 

Yasopp swept over to Makino, depositing the baby in her arms and she planted a sloppy kiss on his forehead, the baby gurgling and waving his tiny fists as she did. Shanks watched their interaction fondly, his eyes creasing at the corner and his lips quirking upwards in a smile that matched hers. 

“It’s weird, huh?” Shanks’s eyes misted over. “Now I’m the same as you, just less stuffy and more handsome. Not to mention, my kid’s going to outgrow the toddler leash in a couple of years too. Yours? Not likely.” 

“When Roronoa surpasses you, and you have to defer to his title, I hope you will repeat that sentiment to his face.” 

“Easily.” Shanks folded his arms smugly. “I used to snark both Captain Roger and Rayleigh at the same time. Besides, your little pupil would probably be too dim to comprehend the insult in time before I get the hell outta dodge.” 

“How fitting for you to be reduced to little more than a gadfly in your twilight years.”

“Oof, Hawk-Eyes. That stings.” 

The baby blew a raspberry then, drawing Mihawk’s attention as Makino sat beside her husband and placed the child in her lap. The baby’s grey eyes were bright and intelligent, staring up into Mihawk’s completely unafraid. Suddenly, he reached out and seized the corner of Mihawk’s longcoat in his fist, stuffing the handful of material in his mouth. 

“Oh, Ace!” Makino gently removed the cloth. “Don’t do that! I’m so sorry, Mihawk-san,” she apologised profusely. 

Mihawk seemed to have frozen in place, unsure of how to react, and Shanks tried his hardest not to laugh. He’d never seen the usually unflappable swordsman so out of his element before. 

_Ace_ , Mihawk thought, a fitting tribute to Luffy’s fallen brother, the man with whom Shanks had once shared drinks. Shanks watched his little family play, a proud smile dancing on his lips, and Mihawk realised that after all this time, he’d finally found his place. Mihawk was no emperor, no ruler or great hoarder of treasure, but he’d learned to see the value in legacies, in leaving his mark on the generations to come. Roronoa Zoro and the little child Ace, both would thrive and grow under the care of the legendary swordsmen who’d found new purpose and life in fatherhood. 

The child beamed, his smile bright like the sun, and Mihawk saw the same expression spreading across the faces of grizzled veterans and seasoned warrior pirates. Not even a year old, and already demonstrating his father’s supernatural magnetism. Shanks was laughing now, pinching Ace’s chubby cheek with his good arm, a reminder of the sacrifice he’d made so long ago. In that sense, Shanks had been wiser than him, Mihawk realised, learning to place his faith in the next generation, in finding a purpose far greater than himself.

Not that he’d ever admit to it, of course. 

Surrounded by Shanks and his family, both biological and of his choosing, Mihawk thoughts drifted to the youths awaiting his return on Kuraigana island. Perona had made him dinner the last time he left, and Roronoa had promised to tend the fields in his absence. For the first time in the two decades he’d known Shanks, both men would no longer have to endure the passing of years alone. 

Silently, Mihawk wished that they would live forever. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
